Demons
by Mrs. Witter
Summary: It's only a matter of time before your demons catch up to you. DHr, HarryPansy, DracoPansy implied, HarryHermione implied
1. Part One

**Disclaimer**: Nope, nothing belongs to me but to J.K. Rowling.

**Pairing(s)**: Draco/Hermione, Harry/Pansy

**Rating**: R

**Part**: 1?

**Dedication**:To Priya, my partner in crime.

**Demons**

_Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams. _

Babylon 5****

Hermione Granger is tired and aching, her sprained ankle is acting up again and her entire body feels as if it were one big throbbing bruise. But it is war, she reminds herself constantly, and in war there is no cause for complaints. None whatsoever. She has learned that the hard way, on one too many occasions.

With the tip of her wand lightened by Lumos, she limps down the squeaky corridor of the second floor at 12 Grimmauld Place, to check on the casualties. That is the role she has been reduced to ever since her 'incident' during a raid a couple of weeks ago: the nurse. An errant Cruciatus curse and a shove in the wrong direction and she is Florence fucking Nightingale.

"See to it that you improve your _bedside_ manner, Miss Granger," Snape had silkily informed her before dashing off to save the world.

It isn't as if she is whining. She has a very important job: the most important one of all: she is, after all, tending to an injured Boy Who Lived. An injured, angry, thought-he-was-entitled-to-everything-because-he-was-who-he-was, ungrateful sonofabitch. As the wave of rage washes over her and recedes, she feels a twinge of guilt and remorse at her thought process. Guilt for obvious reasons: Harry Potter _is_ the hero of The Second War of the Light.

Remorse, because at one time Harry Potter had been her best friend.

She hates that circumstance and death and the foul smelling _everything_ of a tragic battle that could - and would, as Dumbledore had sadly informed her - get a lot worse before it got better has erected an unyielding wall between Harry and her. One that neither one is willing to take the first crack at. Or perhaps, because there is simply no time. Of course, there are more important things to worry about than the crumbling relationship of a couple of eighteen year olds.

_And maybe_, the wayward thought enters her mind hopelessly, _maybe there isn't anything worth saving anymore_.

As she nears Harry's – once Sirius's – room, a noise alerts her and she grasps her wand tighter, ready for whatever has caused the cackling sound from within the room. She wonders, fleetingly, if the worry she feels is for a boy she has loved since they were eleven or for the fate of the world if something were ever to happen to the great Harry Potter. The war for the cause of Light would be over.

The thought has her fighting back tears.

When she pushes open the door, she sees Harry lying pallid on his bed and hears a low murmuring from somewhere next to him. She can't see anyone else in the room but the voice sounds female and slightly familiar. The intruder is using some kind of invisibility charm, she thinks quickly. Taking a deep breath, she calls out, "Who's there?"

The murmuring stops abruptly and Hermione hears a rustle before Pansy Parkinson's head appears to float over the wooden chair next to Harry's bed. "It's me, Granger."

Harry's Invisibility Cloak; Pansy has his cloak. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she manages to speak evenly. "Parkinson. Did you Apparate?"

Even in the dim light of her wand, Hermione can see Pansy wince. Sighing, the raven-haired girl casts the sleeping boy a thoughtful, sad glance. "I risked it, I know. I just wanted to..."

"It's okay," Hermione replies shortly even as she really wishes to yell at this girl, this _Slytherin_, to leave, to stop coming here to see him, to be so close to him, _know_ him, love him like he has always wanted to be loved when she hasn't been there, not from the beginning, not since their first train ride to Hogwarts eight years ago.

Hermione resents Pansy, because this girl who has captured the heart of her best friend can't even be here now, completely, with his demons chasing him, in the middle of the ugliness surrounding them. Whatever it is they are. Hermione doesn't know – or care to know – the details of their relationship.

"Is he any better?"

"No," she replies, quietly, staring at her Harry and ignoring the underlying fear in the other girl's voice, the sheer anguish. "He sleeps, mostly."

Pansy nods, her expression that of someone trying to be brave in the face of adversity. Hermione wants to laugh at this. But instead, she casts eyes toward the floor as Pansy brushes Harry's hair, that ridiculously unkempt hair, and The Boy Who Lived stirs, as if woken by a magical kiss in a Muggle fairytale.

"Hello Potter," she hears Pansy greet him as she turns to leave the room and despite the neutral use of his last name, Hermione is sure that Harry's smiling at her as if they weren't in the middle of total and utter chaos.

& -

The house is quiet, a few candles are burning and the fire is cackling as Draco creeps through Grimmauld Place, stopping briefly to count the casualties. There have been ten more beds added since the last time he was here, twelve hours ago. He thinks he recognizes a Ravenclaw from his class in the corner, snoring blissfully, pale and bruised.

He feels her come into the room before he sees her and turns quietly, hoping she hasn't noticed him yet. She hasn't so he takes this time to take in her appearance. Her hair, as always, is a mess, her robe disheveled and old. He can see she's wearing Muggle jeans and a thin white t-shirt under it. Her ankle is still slightly sprained as she hops around on it and he wonders why no one in this damn place will stop a minute and heal it for her.

He knows she won't do it herself. Not this Granger. Not the one after the start of the Second War.

There are dark smudges under her eyes and an ugly bruise on her cheek and he knows the demons that haunt her are slowly chipping away at her battered soul.

"Granger," he calls out softly, knowing he can't keep staring at her.

She looks up and he waits for something, _anything_, to come into her eyes when she sees him but instead, her expression is bland, her eyes unreadable. "Why do you Slytherins keep dropping in here?"

He arches an eyebrow. _Pansy must be here_, he realizes a little disgusted. _Come to see her fallen lover, the unbelievably silly bint_. He makes a mental note to deal with her later, remind her why she cannot just Apparate into the 'enemy' camp when she could so easily be tailed, when Voldemort is just waiting and expecting for disloyal servants to sacrifice. It was only a matter of time, that unpredictable ticking of the clock, before your demons caught up with you and Pansy had yet to learn that.

Looking at Granger, he replies, snottily, "Maybe if you Gryffindors would stop getting yourselves killed, we wouldn't have to do the dirty work for you, Princess."

These words are weapons (blunt, dull, meaningless weapons): they address each other using old house rivalries, which at this point mean nothing. _It's easier this way_, he tells himself. _We can reduce the war; simplify the separation of our world into familiar terms: the serpent versus the lion_. Neither of them will have to deal with the reality, the unexplainable.

And there it is, the anger, brimming under her skin, turning those eyes dark, almost amber. He thrives on that anger; relishes in the power of the violent reaction he causes within her when _nothing_ (it seems like nothing) can make her feel much of anything anymore.

Not even when she's under him, scratching at his back, bucking her hips against his and moaning out his name (_Malfoy, oh Merlin, _faster…), not even then, does the same beautiful fury unfurl across her face as it does right now.

"Is there something you wanted, Malfoy?" she asks, rather primly and folds her arms under her bust, pushing her breasts against the bodice of her tank top.

_Oh yes_, he wants to say as his fingers itch to grab her, to pull her towards him but he resists, for reasons he knows will upset her. "Snape. Is he here?"

Granger scowls. "He hasn't returned."

"Dumbledore, then."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me," she replies, a little shrilly, the Hogwarts know-it-all shining through for a moment. "I'll pass along any information."

"I am under strict…orders," he tells her, firmly and doesn't wince at the choice of his words. _Malfoys don't take orders_, he can hear his father saying, the fucking hypocrite.

Her hands fly to her hips and she glares at him, the rage blazing in her eyes. "Orders from whom, Malfoy? I'm still a little hazy as to whom you take orders from. How long do you think you'll last out there Malfoy, walking both sides of the line?"

"I'm doing a perfectly fine job so far," he sneers, rising to the bait.

"Bastard," she bites out, coming closer so there's only a step between them. "You fucking hypocrite. You're either with us or against us, Draco. You can't fling curses at us one day and then come here trying to _help_ the next. Pick a fucking side, you coward."

He grabs her then, digging his fingers into her upper arms and bringing her body flush against his so her mouth (that vile, pretty little mouth) is inches from his own. His voice is low, dangerously calm, and he is satisfied to see the fear in his eyes. "Fight me and fuck me, Granger, but don't _ever_ call me a coward, again."

His mouth crashes on hers, punishing and brutal, their teeth clash together as his tongue slips into her mouth, demanding. She's resisting, her body is stiff and arms are still captive in his grasp but he knows her eyes are closed and she's letting him kiss her, letting him invade whatever part of her he chooses. He releases the death grip on her arms and now his hands tangle in her hair, fisting them around the curls and he plunges deeper, demands more.

Draco wants nothing more than to throw her against a wall, unzip her jeans and punish her for her words, for her audacity.

After an eternity, he pulls away to see her face flushed, her eyes closed and lips parted and swollen. Now, he wants (more than anything - the sheer urge shocks him), to gently run his thumb across that lower lip, to softly stroke her cheek.

So he lets her go.

"Something's coming up, Granger," he tells her quietly. "Something bigger than any one person in this War."

"Why are you telling me this?" Her voice is childlike, brittle, the fight drained from her by his kiss.

"I don't know." It is the most honest he's ever been with her. "I must speak to Dumbledore."

She nods. "You know where to find him."

He turns away, heading for the back of the house, where Dumbledore has set up his office and then turns back to Granger, who is staring in the same spot, hugging herself from some invisible cold breeze. She looks at him, waiting for his parting words and he wants to tell her he might not make it out of this war alive; that he's not a coward and he doesn't want to be a hero.

He knows he might never see her again.

"Tell Potter it's not over. Not by a long shot."

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Nope, nothing belongs to me but to J.K. Rowling.

**Characters**: Hermione, Harry, Draco, Pansy

**Rating**: R

**Part**: 2?

**Dedication**:To everyone who still remembers this.

**Part Two**

_She can't find her place.  
She's losing her faith.  
She's fallen from grace.  
She's all over the place._

- "Nobody's Home" by Avril Lavigne

She doesn't knock when she enters the room and catches him sitting up on the bed, shirtless, his back to her. There are scars on his back, which she knows will heal with time, unlike the others. The countless others that can never fade away, no matter how long he lives. _Manages_ to stay alive.

For a moment her eyes trace the ugly marks marring his back, blood red and purple stains on his tanned skin, twisting around his flesh and muscles. She thinks him beautiful still, and for reasons beyond her understanding, a part of her regards him with awe, wonders how she, plain, boring, positively prickly Hermione Granger ended up as one of his closest friends. Well, once upon a time, anyway.

"Harry," she calls softly, to announce her presence. He doesn't turn completely, his head swivels around a bit so she can make out his profile in the dim light. "You're up."

His lips curl slightly in a smirk reminiscent of Malfoy and she steels herself, suddenly hating him with an intensity that shocks her. "Yes, well, there is still a war to fight and all that lot, 'Mione."

Her hands at her sides curl into fists at his use of the once affectionate nickname. They may not be at Hogwarts anymore and she may not be Head Girl or the smartest witch in the Second War of the Light but bloody hell, she hates being addressed as if she were a halfwit. Testily, she answers him, "I assumed that you had forgotten."

He stands up, tugs a white T-shirt over his head and turns to face her, green eyes stormier without the shield of his glasses. "It's hard to forget that when you're holed up in here."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Oh yes, the incessant complaining. How could I forget? Seems to me Harry, you had little cause for it. After all, you had me waiting on you hand and foot, our entire side – and a few not entirely on our side - worrying about your health, and a particular Death Eater popping in to sit by your side."

His anger is emanating from him, she can see the veins in his neck bulge and the lightening bolt, barely visible under his fallen hair, throb eerily. She has entered dangerous territory, she knows this and the reckless part of her, the brave (the sadistic, as Draco would say) Gryffindor does not care and stands there defiantly in the face of a hero's wrath. "Pansy is not a Death Eater."

An almost hysterical laugh bubbles out of her. Figures he would defend his _girlfriend_'s virtue rather than himself. "Oh Harry, put your glasses back on. You've gone completely blind. Parkinson has the Mark. You've seen it. Stop kidding yourself and open your eyes for one bleedin' moment."

"Pansy's information has been invaluable to the Order," Harry reminds her, taking a step closer. He is a full head taller than her, she realizes this as he approaches her, and he seems more foreboding somehow. "She led us to Lestrange."

"All the good it did us," she states bitterly. She doesn't want to have this fight again, and suddenly, she wishes for Ron, because she knows he would be on her side, at least on this one. The urge to see him, the red hair and freckles and huge boyishly beautiful grin, rushes through her system swiftly. She blinks back tears. "Invaluable or not, information from Death Eaters doesn't seem to matter much at this point, Harry."

Suddenly, the anger is gone from his face and he cocks his head to the side. He looks unbelievably tired, weary and beaten. And Hermione wishes she didn't have the capacity to care so much.

He studies her face, a bit saddened, it seems to her and she bears the scrutiny of those green eyes with weak-knees and clammy skin. "Does anything matter much at this point, Hermione? It wasn't your fault, I hope you know that. I wish you could let it go."

He's probing her for a reaction, like Malfoy had probed a few hours (or has it been days?) ago, only Harry's tactics are different though just as sharp. A knife slicing easily through tough hide. She doesn't have to ask or pretend she doesn't know what – or much rather whom - he's talking about. "Not everyone forgets so easily, Harry. It's clear you've made your choice."

The anger returns, full throttle, and he looks magnificent again. Regal and righteous. "Do you think I have a _fucking_ _choice_ in any of this? Do you think it doesn't kill me everyday to be here, to go out there, to use my wand and fight for something that is getting away from me, further and further, every time? I'm fighting a battle with them and I'm fighting one with myself so that I don't give up, that I just don't bloody yell "fuck it all" and disappear from this! And no one can help, Hermione. I know no one can help, as much as they try. And I stand here, watching, as they die and they scramble and just fucking try when I bloody well know that it's only me. Alone. Do you know that?"

"I don't know anything anymore." She admits it, painfully; her voice is weak and pathetic.

He walks to her, to the door, and stops so that their shoulders are almost touching. "No, Hermione, you don't. So I keep at it, because _they_ did. Because Ron did. I don't have a choice. I don't get to make one. But they did and I can never forget that."

When he leaves, closing the door behind him, she crumples to the floor.

- & -

She knows he's there, waiting for her, when she finally apparates into her flat in the right middle of Muggle London. The magic is drained from her in hopes of keeping any watchful Death Eaters at bay. She wishes that it was possible to be rendered completely lame, to become a Squib on the spot. Pansy knows she doesn't want to fight with him.

She's been fighting too many battles and she's already forgetting who's on her side.

"You stupid _bint_!" he snarls as she stands in front of him, in the middle of her flat. It's messy and reeks but she knows better than to spend time cleaning it. Will it even be standing the next time she comes here, or will it be dust in the trail of her traitorous acts. "What the fuck are you thinking, Parkinson?"

"No lectures tonight, Draco," she pleads as she faces her wrath. "Please."

His expression does not soften, he is a Malfoy after all, but he takes a step back. "Are you asking for the death curse? This is not the time for secret rendezvous. Because believe me, no one will hesitate to pull out their wand, Pansy. _No one_."

She manages to raise an eyebrow. "Even you?"

His face remains neutral but she sees him swallow past a lump. His mercurial eyes betray him as they search her face, almost beseechingly. "Pan -"

She snorts and turns away. "Thanks Malfoy. Means so much."

His fingers dig into her upper arm with great force but she is used to his violence, Draco has always been predictably physical in a fight. She whirls around as he yanks her against him, eyes darkened and she remembers one night when there wasn't violence between them, when there wasn't nearly this much hate.

She remembers when she was foolish enough to believe in happily-ever-after.

_So very long ago_.

"Listen to me," he whispers harshly. "Do not think for one bloody second that visiting Potter is safe and alright. I don't care if the fucking bastard is crippled and you want wish him well, you fucking stay on this side of the line. The Dark Lord _will_ kill you and he won't even blink." He grabs the sleeve of her robe and pushes it up her arm, revealing the ugly black mark staining her flawless skin. "Remember this, love? Your curse. _By choice_."

She doesn't want to cry, she will not cry in front of him. Still, tears clog her throat and burn her cheeks and she swallows before she answers, "Yours too."

"Yes," he answers through gritted teeth and she knows he is remembering the two of them, proud, reckless and stupid, kneeling in front of madman as he brandished them as his forever. No way out. "And I bloody well remember it."

"And yet, you've time to stop to fuck a Mudblood," she replies harshly, cutting through whatever ties that bind them time and again. They maybe on the same side (whatever side it was they pretended to be on) but they are enemies.

No one in this war is a friend. Not anymore.

He pushes her away, shakes his head and turns away disgusted. "This isn't a game, little girl."

"Oh do not patronize me, Draco," she yells this time, anger sparking her energy. She doesn't care who he is, that once upon a time she loved him blindly and without question, she twists the knife deeper, without remorse. Hate, she understands better than anything. "You bloody well know that you're doing the exact thing you're asking me not to. You've been toeing the line since Daddy Dearest killed Narcissa. So do not fucking come here and give me a righteous sermon. Leave that to the bleeding Gryffindors."

"This war isn't about Slytherins versus Gryffindors, anymore, Pans. It hasn't been for a long time. Loves made you soft headed, Parkinson. And you best remember what you're about. Grow up."

"Bollocks! What I am about?" she asks, her voice now a shrill whisper. "Who even knows anymore? I've killed and I've lied and I've hated myself. Don't pretend to be any better, Malfoy. The only thing I am certain of is Potter, so forgive me for holding onto that."

Draco's expression is cruel as he shatters her delusions. He makes a dramatic gesture with his hands before grabbing her by both shoulders and shaking her. "You really don't get it, do you, Pansy? You think your precious hero will save you at that last crucial moment? Potter has one goal in mind and that is to kill Voldemort. If he doesn't die trying, that is. He simply doesn't have _time_ to save you, pet." He steps away, hardens his face and continues to stare at her. "So go sit by his side, lead him straight to us…but don't fucking cry when he pulls out his wand and doesn't even think twice about killing you."

Because it hits a little too close to home, to her greatest fear, she battles against his words. Straightening her spine, she spits back, "I always knew you were a bastard, Malfoy. I never knew you to be a coward."

He moves fast, whips out his wand and has it against her throat, her against a wall, before she can even blink. The tip digs into her skin, near her windpipe and she struggles to breathe. Despite the fear and tug of betrayal that pulls at her heart, she meets his murderous gaze coolly. _Do it_, she begs him silently. _It would be so easy. _Her eyes close as his fingers flinch reflexively on the wand and she counts backwards from five.

The wand leaves her throat, she hears him let out a weary sigh but keeps her eyes shut. "I wish I could hate you, Parkinson."

When she hears a soft 'pop' her eyes open and the tears stream down her cheeks, unbidden.

_To Be Continued…_


End file.
